


Gone on you

by ColdPorridge22



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, but it gets real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28489317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdPorridge22/pseuds/ColdPorridge22
Summary: In order to find out what caused several disappearances, John and Sherlock need to go undercover... at a couple's retreat.Both men are utterly convinced that the other doesn't reciprocate their feelings, but have no choice but to play their part. Between growing feelings and the imminent threat of their unknown opponent, both men must do what they can to preserve their lives, friendship and sanity.Yes, this trope has been done a million times, I don't care.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 33
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

_Making someone disappear was so disgustingly easy. Anyone could do it, really. Finding the correct target was possibly the hardest. Well, that and masking your trail. But honestly, it just came down to actually having the guts to do what needed to be done._

_Most people just didn’t have the nerve for it._

_I’m not most people. I can see the bigger picture. Know what steps needed to be taken, however unfortunate in the details. I will be forgiven, though the completion of my plan will be enough for me._

_It’s time now. After such a long time of watching and waiting, finally the time for action has come._

_A foreign feeling, nearly a giddy nervosity, bubbles up, before I steel myself. I must do it, and do it right._

* * *

It wasn’t exactly _the plan_ that John would move back into Baker Street. He still had his flat in the suburbs, the one he’d shared with Mary. It had been Mary’s place before John had moved in, and it still showed. Everything in the flat reminded him of _her_.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t loved Mary. She’d been good to him – on balance, at least. She’d loved him. She’d given him a daughter. She’d been a beacon of light when he was suffering, a lifeline after Sherlock Fell. Yes, that deserved a capital F. The event that had caused _everything_. Things put in motion that could not be stopped. A marriage. A child. Even Sherlock’s return couldn’t undo that sequence of events.

John had loved her, in a way. But not really. Not fully. When Sherlock was gone, yes, she was his light in the darkness. But Sherlock was the entire fucking sun. The sun that would sustain life, bring a raucous joy and breathless exhilaration that made you thank God on your knees that you were put on this Earth. The sun that would burn out your retinas and blister your skin. And always at a distance too far to be reached.

He didn’t want to think about how horribly he’d treated Sherlock in the aftermath of Mary’s death. The shame would kill him. But somehow, like it had been an inevitability, they found their way back to each other. Damaged, broken, beat down… but finally they were able to reach the point they’d been at before the Fall.

When they were starting to clear up the house after the whole Eurus debacle, John brought a crib and declared that he and Rosie would be staying over during the renovations. To help out.

It took surprisingly little time to clean up the mess from the explosion, even when considering how much of a pig sty the place had been before a grenade went off. As they took down the charred wallpaper, John had half-heartedly suggested that Sherlock put up something different, but he had been rebutted immediately.

The reason they turned their flat back into a copy of the original wasn’t because of some strict adherence to interior design. Nor was it because the wallpaper hadn’t gone out of fashion (because honestly, it had). No, they did it because both of them desperately craved what they had before.

Before. That was a vague word, but if you asked anyone who frequented Baker Street, they knew exactly what ‘before’ entailed. It started with a meeting at St. Bart’s and it had ended with a meeting at St. Bart’s.

It had been four long years since the end of ‘before’, two of which John Watson had spent mourning his friend and trying to rebuild his life. The third year started dramatically with the return of Sherlock Holmes, but also saw John’s marriage and the birth of his daughter. The fourth year… well, no one really liked to talk about the fourth year. That was probably the reason John and Sherlock so desperately longed for ‘before’.

So the wallpaper was hung and historically accurately graffitied, the armchairs and table and rug all cleaned up and carefully positioned to make an echo of their past. There, a tribute to the simpler times.

Having retired to his bedroom after a long day cleaning, John sat on his bed, back to the headboard, and took a deep breath. Dust particles floated on the sunbeam that shone softly through his window. The room hadn’t changed a bit – mostly because it hadn’t been damaged in the explosion. Plus, it hadn’t been let out since he left Baker Street the night after Sherlock died… well, fake-died of course. Now here he was, back in the same bedroom after four years. Sitting here, he could almost imagine the previous four years had never happened. Like his life hadn’t been ripped apart, sewn together and ripped apart again. He could almost believe it, looking at that dusty sunbeam that signalled the end of dusk.

But of course, he merely needed to turn his head slightly to the left and there would be irrefutable proof that life had changed. Because of course it had changed. For the better? Absolutely yes. For the worse? Definitely yes. There was his child, his daughter who didn’t have a mother anymore. His daughter, whose father was now living in a London bachelor pad with the man who meant more to him than anyone else.

John groaned, putting his face in his hands. How. How had his life gone so wrong? How had he, captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, army doctor, turned out to be such a mess? Whatever he did, he got dragged into the most dangerous, ridiculous and heart-breaking situations. His life practically couldn’t run smoothly for more than a few months. Addicted to trouble, his wife had called it. Was he really such a masochist? Sure, he loved the thrill of hunting down a criminal and he certainly didn’t mind the odd cut or bruise… but hadn’t life gotten excessively painful for him? He’d already mourned Sherlock’s death once – and the idiot didn’t seem averse to going down again – followed by the loss of his wife.

Sleep didn’t come easy. It hardly ever did these days. Rosie slept badly and John knew it was because she missed her mother. And John… well, John had nightmares. Between him tossing and turning, or waking up in a cold sweat, or Rosie screaming her head off at all hours, he was running on maybe two hours of sleep a night.

* * *

“Sorry ‘bout last night.” John mumbled from behind his coffee one morning. It had been a bad night, Rosie had gotten colicky and had been inconsolable. He’d spent hours pacing up and down his bedroom, rocking her gently until the cramps had settled. He hadn’t been able to sleep after.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock said, a bit too fast for John’s comfort. He didn’t fail to notice the detective looked a shade paler than normal, and the area under his eyes a tad darker.

“Did you get some sleep at least?” He pressed.

“Yes, of course. John, it’s really not a concern. But you had a rough one. It looks like you spent most of the night staring at the ceiling.” His tone was not unkind, and as usual, he was spot on.

John waved his concerns away, then stood up to clear off breakfast. He ran the sink, filling it with last night’s dinner dishes that still littered the kitchen.

Sherlock stood up hastily. “I- I should’ve done that, here, let me.” He hurried towards the sink.

“Sherlock,” sighed John. “I don’t mind. I have a few minutes before I leave. Besides, I know you hate this.” And with that, he started scrubbing caked on dinner remains off a plate.

“Fine. Then I’ll dry off.” His roommate replied as he swooped down and searched the lower cupboards for a towel.

John’s hands stilled in the soapy water and slowly he turned to his friend, incredulous.

“Drying off? Sherlock… you never dry off. You once called it the Mycroft of household jobs.”

His friend didn’t meet his eye, just withdrew a kitchen towel with a flourish and grabbed the plate John had just washed.

“Come on then, don’t make me wait for you.” He said primly. John snorted with laughter and shook his head as he plunged a cup into the water.

“Well, I won’t complain. You’re mental, you know.”

“Certifiable.” Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye and gave a small smile and a wink.

And then John felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Butterflies. In his goddamn stomach.

… Oh fuck.

* * *

They fell into an easy routine. Well, as easy as routines could become with a child. John would make breakfast for the three of them, then bring Rosie to day-care on his way to the surgery. Sherlock worked cases that sometimes took him out of the house for a day or two at a time, but mostly he seemed to be mindful of their newfound domestic rhythm. He’d even surprised John by cooking one night. It was the worst pasta John had had since his uni days, but somehow he grinned at the detective across the table as if it was the best meal he’d ever had.

Rosie was absolutely besotted with Sherlock. John suspected it was reciprocated, though Sherlock was still tentative around her. ( _It was adorable to see – no, don’t go there_ , he admonished himself). Some nights, when John was exhausted after a long day at work and then cooking for everyone, Sherlock took it upon himself to gently wipe down Rosie’s food-stained fingers and face and take her up to bed. He never read to her ( _it’s insipid, John_ ), but he did tell her stories. John could never see from downstairs, but he imagined his little girl hung onto his every word.

“She’s out like a light.” Sherlock reported one night, some time late in March. John was puttering around in the kitchen, cleaning up. He looked over his shoulder and smiled.

“Thanks for taking her up. I heard you telling her one of our old cases.”

“Not to worry, I’ve kept it age-appropriate. And it worked. She was all chatter one minute and down for the count the next. She’s got that from you.”

The low evening sun illuminated the fond gleam in the tall man’s eyes. It did not escape John’s notice.

“She loves a good crime story. Wonder if she’ll want to become a detective when she grows up.”

Sherlock leaned against the counter. He stood close, their arms and shoulders very nearly touching. It was maddening to John.

“Well, I suppose she could join the Yard. Not when she’s grown up, either. She just needs to learn how to walk properly and she’ll be good to go. Her observation skills already surpass those of Anderson. I’ll give her a month before she surpasses Donovan.”

John snickered. “Yeah, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She’s still 50% me.”

“She could do a lot worse than end up like you. Means there’s hope for the consulting detectives in the world.”

John opened his eyes. Sherlock was looking at him, pale eyes soft. It made his heart skip a beat.

“Well,” he muttered, meeting his gaze. “she’ll have to get in line. There’s only one consulting detective in the world and he’s taken.”

Sherlock swallowed dryly, then opened his mouth to speak and –

“Yoo-hoo!”

Mrs Hudson permitted herself entrance to the flat, trailed by stiff-looking Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock all but hissed and flung himself away from the kitchen counter, stalking to the sofa.

“ _What_.” He snapped as he dropped down on it gracelessly. They’d been having _a moment_. How _dare_ his heartless brother interrupt _their moment_. He didn’t want to look up and watch John. What if John was glad the moment didn’t happen? He couldn’t bear that if he saw that -

“Case.”

“No.”

The head of the British government sighed, but proved unperturbed. “I’m afraid I must insist. I’ve lost two agents on this case already. They were investigating the disappearance of one of my MI6 agents, who visited the location with his partner. Two civilians who have visited the same location have also disappeared, bringing the total to three agents and three civilians. The next person I send in had better finish the job.”

Steely eyes glared mutinously from the sofa. “And I’m the one to do it.”

Mycroft settled himself into John’s chair, resting his ever-present umbrella against the side. “Both of you, in fact. Together, you possess a unique skill set that will be vital in the investigative process.”

“Me?” John asked incredulously. “I’d hate to bring myself down, but as you both frequently point out, my brain is not much special.”

Mycroft inclined his head with an oily smile. “Do not do yourself too much of a disservice. It is not your brain that will be needed, Doctor. It is your affectionate tolerance for my little brother. I dare say it’s a skill only one man in the entire world possesses.”

“Why don’t you spit it out already, Mycroft.” Sherlock bit at him. “What do you need us to do?”

“I need you to go undercover at the Crai Retreat of Healing. As a couple.”

“A couple of what?” Sherlock asked, rising fear clear in his voice. John didn’t need to hear Mycroft’s reply to know the answer. A block of ice settled in his stomach.

“A couple. Of lovers.” The elder Holmes said delicately.

Mrs Hudson squealed and clapped her hands to her mouth in glee. Neither inhabitant of 221b shared her enthusiasm.

This was going to be rough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality settles in. Reluctantly.

A retreat.

A fucking couples retreat. Sherlock was sure that there _had_ to be something in the Geneva Convention about torture of this level. Not that his big brother would be overly intimidated by silly restrictions like international legal frameworks regarding war. To a man like Mycroft Holmes, the law was about as useful as the Sunday newspaper. Sometimes handy, to swat a fly here, or stoke a fire there, but on the whole disregarded after a glance. Irrelevant. Obsolete.

Not that Sherlock himself was any different when it came to brotherly affection, but then again, he only tortured his brother to acceptable levels. If Mycroft’s agents hadn’t been directly targeted, he might have even thought that this was all one big joke.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m out.” John had spoken first after Mycroft had revealed the details.

Sherlock observed him. John was standing, stiff as a board and looking a bit green. _Repulsed_ was the word that immediately came to him. _Disgusted._ He tore his eyes away, unwilling to look any further. He’d known there wasn’t a chance in the world that John might have romantic feelings for him – never mind that he would act on those feelings. In a strange way, there was a part of him that was relieved. Because if John _did_ want him… Sherlock could never be what John deserved. He could never live up to those kinds of expectations. He’d fuck up everything spectacularly and lose John forever. But there was another part, a much bigger part, that wanted John. That wanted to kiss him and wake up next to him and other things that his inexperience couldn’t even dream up yet. Maybe they could -

“I’m afraid there’s no choice in the matter, Dr. Watson.” His brother’s voice shook him from his train of thought.

“Why not? Certainly, your agents have failed you, dear brother, but I don’t doubt that you have your choice of minions to send on this mission. I don’t see why we should both be spending our precious time in the middle of nowhere on a case that hasn’t even turned up a dead body yet.”

“Careful, Sherlock, those are my men you’re talking about.” A dangerous gleam shone in the pale eyes.

“Oh please, you don’t give a damn about their lives.” Sherlock snorted derisively.

Mycroft contemplated that for a second, then shrugged. “Well, I care about the resources to train up their replacements.”

“So why not someone else? We’re not exactly low-key infiltrates. People know us. Know we’re not a couple.” John’s colour had returned a bit, though his face and stance just screamed _apprehension_. Well, actually, to Sherlock it read as _fuck off, Mycroft_. He sported that very same look often enough.

Mycroft turned primly in the chair, addressing the doctor. “People _do_ know you. They know you claim not to be in a relationship, but isn’t it always the ones who deny the loudest? All you would need to add is a bit of physicality and no one would doubt you were together. Thanks to your fame, it is well known that you are living together and raising little Miss Watson. People want to believe you are in a relationship. Your notoriety certainly helps your cover.”

“Oh, come on, John!” Mrs Hudson shook his arm. “It’s hardly a big step for the two of you… if you haven’t taken that step already.” She added with a wink.

“For the love of… I’m not gay!” John cried, throwing his arms up, though no one seemed to pay attention. Mrs Hudson patted his arm affectionately and shuffled past him to put the kettle on.

“The Crai Retreat of Healing.” Sherlock was tapping on his phone, looking down at the screen as if it had personally offended him. “A place to reconnect with your soulmate, rebuild trust and intimacy and strengthen your relationship. Guided by our professional psychologists you will participate in therapy sess- _therapy?_ Mycroft, there’s _therapy._ Look at this! Group sessions!”

“Yeah, that settles it. I’m definitely out.” John threw up his hands and turned to find his coat.

“Hold your tongues. Both of you.”

Mycroft’s voice cut cold as steel. John froze, as did Sherlock. Mrs Hudson puttered on in the kitchen, unperturbed – ever the dissident.

“Both of you are behaving like children. Six people are missing, three of which are my agents. My agents do _not_ go missing. I need to know whether there is a connection to any of the cases they were working and if not, why these people were targeted. Sherlock, I have looked into it and I am not ashamed to admit I am coming up blank. I need eyes on the ground. If you could possibly adlib your way through a few therapy sessions, I would _highly_ appreciate it. As would the six people who might turn up dead if they’re not found.”

Mycroft threw a stack of folders on Sherlock’s chair opposite him. Then he stood up, straightening his back, umbrella loosely in hand.

“I have made reservations in your name. You will be expected tomorrow at noon. I suggest you spend that time to sort out your backstory. Dr. Watson, I have made arrangements for little Miss Watson to be cared for by several well-trained nannies. After all, seven days is a long time to be undercover.”

With a swish of expensive coat, he was out the door. Sherlock and John looked at each other, incredulous.

“Seven… days?” John asked, voice nearly a squeak.

Sherlock didn’t have an answer for him. He felt as nauseated as John looked.

* * *

Like proper British gentlemen, they spent the next two hours completely ignoring the fact that they were going on a couples retreat. Sherlock refused to touch the manila folders that still resided on his chair. Instead he sat at the desk to write down his latest findings in clothing fibre analysis.

John was the first to broach the topic again.

“We should probably talk.”

“Should we?” Sherlock refused to look up from his studies. “Sounds boring.”

“We should.” And with that, he started rifling through the papers.

“Has it occurred to you that you stand very little chance of solving the case if Mycroft hasn’t been able to?” Sherlock said pointedly.

“Has it occurred to _you_ that we don’t have to go to that damn retreat if you solve the case before tomorrow?” John snapped back. Sherlock’s head whipped up with a speed that made the doctor feel a phantom whiplash.

With that, Sherlock was in full detective mode. There was precious little to go on; Mycroft had provided them with the details of the victims, cases the three agents had worked on and the work of the three civilian victims.

That night, neither man found much rest. Darkness fell over Baker Street, the windows along it lighting up a merry golden yellow. Still, they didn’t get closer to an answer. On they searched, and theorized, and debated, the neighbours’ windows extinguishing one by one until theirs was the only lamp lit along the ancient street.

It was a little after two in the morning when Sherlock stood up and stretched, popping his spine in what must have been a very satisfying feeling, but ultimately disgusting sounding cracks.

“I have to talk to Mabel Young.” Mabel Young was, as Sherlock had deduced with his usual ease, the mistress of David Parker, a financial advisor who worked in the Gherkin. David and his wife Eileen were two of the civilians who had gone missing, just three days after attending the retreat.

“Now? Sherlock, it’s 2:10 AM.”

“Yes, when she’ll be returning from her rendezvous with the dim-witted Mr. Acklesbury. You can always count on a nymphomaniac serial cheater to keep an irregular schedule. I’m sure I can expect her to be walking home somewhere in the next half hour.”

Sherlock grabbed his coat and looked at him expectantly.

“I can’t go with you.”

He felt like shit saying it, but it was true. Mrs Hudson was already asleep and there was no one to mind Rosie otherwise. If their landlady had been awake, he could’ve asked, but asking her now would probably result in a frying pan to the head. And he wished he were making that up.

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face fell. “Right. Rosie. I wasn’t thinking. Well, not of her, per se. I’m always thinking.”

“It’s okay, just go. Can I do anything more from here? I’m nearly done with Tanisha’s Twitter timeline and it’s looking like another dead end.” Tanisha Merchant, civilian, 42 of Basingstoke, was the long time partner of Kendra Corby, 41, one of Mycroft’s agents.

Sherlock paused, then looked him up and down critically. “Perhaps you would benefit from some sleep. Rosie has kept you up four nights in a row now. I prefer my blogger well-rested.” He buttoned up his coat before sending him a small smile.

John’s mouth went dry. “It’s looking like we might actually have to do this, then?”

The detective paused, wringing the scarf in his hands ever so slightly. John didn’t miss the movement – and it only added to his disquiet. His friend was nervous, and that wasn’t a normal occurrence. Not only were they thrown an unusually hard case, the prospect of pretending to be a couple seemed to put the taller man off completely. That chilled John to the bone. Because once they started pretending… well, John wouldn’t be pretending and the detective was one of the best in the world for a reason. If the prospect of just pretending sickened Sherlock so much, what would he do when he found out John’s act wouldn’t be an act?

Nausea roiled in his gut again. He swallowed it back.

Sherlock looked at him with an unreadable expression.

“Don’t stay up.”

And he was off.

* * *

He liked London at this time of night. It was quiet in the backstreets near Holborn, his the only footsteps echoing faintly between the age old buildings. If he turned right on the next street, he’d find Edgar, of his homeless network, but he wasn’t in the mood for a chat. He needed to think.

The fluorescent glow of the lampposts reflected dully in the ever-present puddles along the city’s cobbled pavement. A bit of rain, only drizzle really, seemed suspended in the lamplight, like a fine mist. His breath formed little clouds and it reminded him of the days he smoked.

God, he’d kill for a cigarette. But he wouldn’t. John disliked it when he smoked. Normally, another person’s opinion would result in exactly zero consequences on his part, but when it came to John… John was different. John was the ineffable exception to the rule.

Not too long ago, a few months only, John had broken down in his arms. Crying over Mary. _She taught me to be the man she already thought I was. Get yourself a piece of that_ , he’d said. And Sherlock had wanted to yell back _I do, I do have someone like that_. Because he could live without everyone else, but not John. It scared him, it rattled him to his core that he’d become _so_ fragile. John had walked into his life one day and he’d just been… part of his life ever since. When he Fell – and yes, retroactively, he might’ve handled that differently – he fully expected John to wait for him. To be there to pick up where they left off. He hadn’t anticipated Mary. It felt like he had been replaced, demoted. Unimportant to the only person who really mattered to him. After Mary’s death it had been worse. John had despised him. And Sherlock had truly felt like the man John thought him to be. Unworthy, miserable. It had been hateful, because the one person in the entire world who he needed to tolerate him, couldn't anymore.

He shook his head roughly, chasing off the bad thoughts. _No._ Can’t think about that. They were on good terms now. He had to enjoy it while it lasted. Even if the firing squad was planned for noon that day.

* * *

He arrived home just after four in the morning, to cacophony.

Rosie had evidently not been sleeping well, because she was currently screeching loud enough to raise several demons from the abyss. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, not worrying about the racket he was producing. The chances of Mrs Hudson and John sleeping through this squalling were not just improbable; it was impossible.

“Hope you have better luck with her, dear.” Mrs Hudson mumbled sleepily as they passed each other on the third floor landing. He looked back at her, only to see her retreating to her bedroom down the hall, door closing behind her.

John looked wrecked, he noticed. It tugged at his heartstrings. An unfamiliar feeling when it came to anyone else, but John was, as ever, the ineffable exception. The doctor was rocking his daughter softly, muttering soft words of love and reassurance at her. He looked exhausted, as he often did these days. Clad in pyjama pants and a shirt, hair tousled from what must have been only a short, interrupted nap, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to hold him close and mutter some of those same words to him. He refrained.

“I can take her.” He held out his hands and John obliged, handing over the little girl to him. Sherlock _tried_ to ignore the fact that their hands touched. John was warm from sleep still. He cradled Rosie close and swayed back and forth.

“Sshh. Sshh.. it’s alright girl, it’s alright.” Then to John, “get some sleep, I’ll go downstairs. I’ll bring her up when she’s out again.”

“No, I think she’s nearly there. She’s exhausted herself. She went off quite a while back.” John slid down to the ground, sitting with his back against his bed. “Thanks for taking her. She’s getting so heavy, my arms were getting tired.”

The detective kept rocking her gently and indeed, after a few minutes, her cries turned into sorrowful hiccoughs and before long, she started rubbing her eyes.

“There you go, Watson, there’s a good girl. Now get some good sleep for me, okay?” He muttered as he laid her down in her crib. Tucking her in, he placed a kiss on her forehead and stroked her cheek with a finger. He’d never liked children… of course John’s child would be the exception.

“You’re so good with her.” John said in a hushed voice, clearly not wanting to disturb her sleep. “She loves you to pieces, you know.”

Sherlock plopped down on the floor next to him, reclining to face the crib, just as John was. “I’m quite fond of her. Maybe because she looks like you. Eats just as neatly, too.”

John snorted and elbowed his ribs. Sherlock accepted it gladly, grinning at his roommate.

“I think she just really misses Mary, you know.” The doctor whispered. “It sucks, knowing I can’t give her everything she needs.”

“What do you think she needs?”

“Two parents, or at least _one_ functioning adult. A brother or sister. A dog. God, I don’t know.”

“Right.” His stomach sank to his shoes. Of course. Of course he wanted that. It was only a matter of time before John moved on. Found another woman with hips and breasts and bright laughter and easy companionship and all the things John liked and Sherlock lacked. And if that made John happy, then Sherlock wanted that for him too… but _he_ wanted it. _He_ wanted to be the one to seamlessly slot into the gaping hole in John’s heart. But bony, skinny, awkward _mean_ Sherlock never fit anywhere.

John shook him from his gloomy ruminations. “So, did Mabel Young give any good leads?”

“Started promising.” He whispered back, eager for a change of topic. “Followed two leads, came up empty. I thought they might all have affairs in common, but only two of the victims have had, as Miss Young so eloquently put it, a _side_ piece. One couple had been struggling with infertility, one with infidelity, the couple of agents Mycroft sent took the infidelity route too. Easy enough to act out anger, far easier than grief.”

He thought for a bit, then – “I have a feeling Mycroft was right about the retreat. It’s the only thing connecting all the cases. We need to go there. I’m sorry.” _I’m sorry I’m forcing you into something you clearly don’t want._

“Don’t be.”

He looked sideways. He could barely make out the doctor’s features in the darkness of the bedroom, but he thought that might be for the best. Such conversations might be best without the light of day. Any facial clue he would be able to read, he’d burrow deeply into his Mind Palace to examine over and over and over… not good.

“Would it really be that bad? I mean, to pretend we’re a couple? It’s just some hand holding and calling each other sweetheart or honeybun or whatever ridiculous pet name we think up.”

“Think we can keep that up for seven days?”

“Oh… right.” A few pauses. “Maybe we’d have to kiss.”

It was as if he’d been set alight. Sherlock’s heart was hammering in his chest, so loud in his own ears that he thought he might actually wake Rosie. He thanked the very non-existent deities that it was dark, because he was certain that he flushed bright red at that. Did John sound disgusted? No, no… it didn’t seem so. Not enthusiastic, but not filled with horror either. This was okay. This was good. He felt hope and terror and -

“Maybe. I- I think. Yeah.” And damn him if that didn’t sound like a squeak. They were facing each other, but neither of them moved.

“So… should we practice? I mean… first kisses are awkward as hell. We’ll be caught for sure if we just start necking clumsily. Jesus, how embarrassing would _that_ be…”

Oh. _Oh_. John wanted to kiss… _now_. “Um, yeah.. I err.. I suppose we… y-yeah.” Oh god he was a wreck now. His mind was going a mile a minute. Were they going to do it _now_? Was his breath okay? When did he brush his teeth last? Oh god, John’s face was really close now. Should he tilt his head left or right? Where did his nose go? How did people kiss again? He’d done that before, he just needed to get to his Mind Palace quickly to gather some information, he was not prepared, oh god _I’m not prepared_ he had to do this right or John would never do it again and John was smelling like late night coffee and that one soap Molly had given him for his birthday and –

Silence.

Soft, warm lips descended upon his and his mind went blank. It was… it was transcendent. Every thought and worry quieted instantly as all his senses directed to this moment, this one perfect moment between them. John’s lips moved gently against his and he moved with him, not knowing how he knew what to do. It was a chaste kiss, just feeling and caressing. Instinctively, he pressed back a bit firmer, wanting, needing. A hand came up to his cheek, calloused yet soft. Sherlock whimpered. He felt simultaneously completely overwhelmed and utterly at peace. His brain wasn’t working. All he knew was that they should keep kissing, definitely press their lips together again and again, breathing each other’s breaths…

The sun might’ve rose and set again, he didn’t know, but eventually John pulled back.

“Oh.” He said dazed.

“Yeah. Oh.” Sherlock echoed. He’d never kissed like that. He’d never _been_ kissed like that… well, he’d kissed, but it had never had this effect on him. “Was that… okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Definitely o-“ John stopped short. Rosie was turning in her crib, letting out a small whimper. They both froze, neither of them daring to make another sound. Sherlock had a ridiculous flashback to the time they stood in the living room, facing a grenade. This felt eerily similar... but Rosie stopped squirming and fell silent again, breaths deepening in sleep.

“I should go.” Reluctantly he got to his feet, leaving the army doctor on the floor. He walked off in a slightly disoriented manner.

He pretended not to hear the muffled snicker behind him when he bumped into the door jamb on his way out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make it to the retreat with only minor incidents along the way. Never let Mrs Hudson have access to your bags.

Baker Street was a flurry of activity the next morning. Sherlock woke to find John already instructing one of Mycroft’s nannies on Rosie’s timetable and diet. Groggily, he made his way to the kitchen and nearly tripped over the bag John had already packed and set aside.

“Why is everyone up so early?” He muttered to no one in particular, rummaging around the cupboards for a clean tea mug. As he poured his tea, he let out a huge yawn. He’d slept… weirdly. Good, but restless. He’d had strange dreams, fantastical even. He normally deemed dreams an utter waste of brain energy, but there had been an element of happiness to this dream. He knew of course what had caused that, but in the spirit of efficacy, he compartmentalized that events of the previous night to a safe room in his Mind Palace.

“Because we’re leaving in thirty minutes. You _did_ read Mycroft’s instructions, didn’t you?”

“Hmm. Skipped that part. Boring.” He brushed past the nanny with a vapid grunt of hello (honestly, a big improvement. In the past he would've ignored her) and sauntered over to Rosie.

“Watson agrees with me, don’t you Watson?” He crouched down in front of his chair, where she was sitting on the ground.

“Wa ba wa.” And she let out a giggle, then fished one of the manila folders off the chair and munched happily on one of the corners.

“Don’t let her eat that, please.” John’s tone was one of suppressed amusement. “I don’t think that’s one of the five a day.”

“Well, she apparently does agree with me. Besides, she might learn something through osmosis and solve the case.” But he tugged the folder away and returned it to the safety of the desk either way. Rosie looked confused, but then pointed one hand to him and pointed the other to the kitchen. Then she clapped her hands and giggled again.

“Your daughter is easily amused.” The nanny remarked with an easy smile.

“Quite. Same as her father. If she’s a bother, just put on crap telly and she’ll zonk out on the sofa.” Sherlock shot back blithely. He grinned at John, who just rolled his eyes.

“You just go and get ready.” John said exasperated as he nudged him towards the shower. Then, as Sherlock passed, John implored the nanny:

“Do _not_ let her watch crap telly.”

###

After a chaotic departure from Baker Street – because honestly, how else could they depart? – John enjoyed the monotony of the M4. Sherlock had, to exactly no one’s surprised, failed to be ready on time, resulting in slapdash throwing of clothing and toiletries. It hadn't helped that Mrs. Hudson had inserted herself into the fray and insisted she stuff some extra sandwiches in John's bag for the road. But amidst all the chaos, they’d managed to extract themselves, give Rosie a good cuddle and kiss goodbye, and set off.

So yes, the M4 on an early Saturday morning was a welcome change of pace. Sherlock had insisted on driving the rental car that one of his brother’s cronies had delivered that morning, so John was free to let his mind roam as the gently undulating English landscape whizzed past.

He felt selfish. Last night he’d taken something, something he’d wanted for a long time. And he’d taken it under false pretences. There had been no actual need to kiss Sherlock. No watchful eyes scrutinizing their fake relationship. They’d been alone, in the dark, at home. No pretending necessary, but he'd made Sherlock believe that they needed to _practice_. Something had come over him, a boldness and deceitfulness that made him feel ashamed now that he looked back on it. _Practice_. What a lark.

And it had been _nice._ He’d kissed a fair few people in his day, so he felt completely confident in saying that this kiss had been special. His first kiss with a man, that ought to win a podium place at least. But even aside from that, it had been a special kiss. His heart had skipped an actual beat or two and an unnameable warmth had suddenly flooded him.

He’d have many, many more of those if he could. However, their relationship was meant to be entirely fictitious. How could he be using his best friend for such egotistical means? And what if he found out? Their friendship had survived a great many things, but this? This was on another level… Wasn’t this a direct infringement on the boundaries that should exist between friends and roommates? Pushing the kiss… that wasn’t just disingenuous, it was duplicitous.

“I can hear your gears grinding. I thought we agreed you’d leave all the thinking up to me?”

John snorted, meeting his friend’s sideway glance. “I can’t outsource _all_ rational thinking. Someone needs to keep you in check.” _And me. I won’t kiss him again. I won’t do that to him. Not unless we absolutely have to._

An upturned corner of the mouth and a little amused exhalation through the nose was the only response. John braced himself, then pushed onto a topic they desperately needed to discuss next.

“We should think of a cover story. When we got together, what our relationship is like and such.”

“Well, all lies should stick as closely to the truth as possible. Especially if we’re going to keep up the charade for several days. You have many fine qualities and virtues, John, and being truthful is my least favourite. I believe it would be in our best interest if we give you as little improvisation as possible.”

“Ta, you tit.”

“Certainly.” But the grin he shot John undercut any mean intentions his words might’ve had. “Tell me then, as you are, between the two of us, the most experienced in courtship and subsequent co-dependent attachment. What would a relationship between us entail?”

“Wow, you really just bounced that right back to me.” John blinked indignantly, then shook his head and gave it a shot. “Alright, I’d say we would… we’d live together. We’d work together. Raise Rosie together.”

“We already do that, John.” Sherlock cut in dryly, rolling his eyes. “When did we get together?”

John leaned back in his seat, furrowing his brow. “Can’t be before Mary, surely. And not too soon after. So… right before I moved in? Just after Eurus?”

Sherlock nodded. “That seems plausible. The traumatic events led us to reveal our latent romantic feelings and we have augmented our existing relationship with a satisfactory sexual component.”

“Satisfactory, eh?” John grinned. “Am I a good lover then?”

“I don’t doubt it. Your altruistic nature would indicate that you are generous and sympathetic to your partner’s needs.”

Was he imagining it, or was there the faintest blush rising on the detective’s cheeks? _Nope, don’t go looking too much into this. Slippery slope_. John turned his head stoically forward. No doubt a similar rosy colour was creeping up his own face.

“So what are we doing in couples counselling if we have such a good relationship? You basically plonked good sex on top of our friendship. Sounds a bit too fictional, doesn’t it?” _Not that I’d mind_ , he mentally added.

“Should we bring up that we have bedroom problems and then proceed to talk about that for a few therapy sessions?” Sherlock mentioned casually. John look at him, horrified. “I didn’t think so. No, I suggest that we stick close to the truth. Anything that bothers you about me. I understand that there’s quite a bit of talking involved, which is not my strong suit. Well, talking is, but not the therapy kind of ‘opening up’. That’s more you.” Sherlock said, releasing the steering wheel and making air quotes with his long fingers.

John looked at him with a wicked grin. “Oh don’t worry. I have a whole list I can complain about. Hold on, I’ll make notes. I brought a notebook.”

He reached over to rummage in his bag that he’d left on the back seat. But as he felt around, he closed his hand around an item that he had specifically _not_ packed. With growing terror, he lifted the item up.

“Mrs Hudson…” The words left his lips in a mere whisper, filled with abject horror.

Sherlock peered curiously into the rear-view mirror… and sucked in a shocked breath.

Between the sandwiches she had insisted on packing, their landlady had snuck in a tube of lube.

* * *

The Crai Retreat of Healing was situated gorgeously on the rough heather hills of the Brecon Beacons, the stormy grey stone walls nearly indistinguishable from the tempestuous skies. The country house kept several a few smaller buildings in its shadow. The manor looked a respectable size and must, at one point in time, have been a lordly dwelling.

It made for a romantic sight, even if the two men driving up were currently _not_ interested in thinking about anything remotely resembling more than platonic feelings. The discovery of Mrs Hudson’s little stowaway had resulted in a very shocked and stony silence, as well as a pair of beet red faces. They hadn’t talked since.

The two men were hailed down by a kindly middle aged man, who escorted them inside. He introduced himself as Mr Bryce and took their bags as he ushered them into the main room. John prayed to himself that the bag wouldn’t suddenly burst open and reveal the tube inside. He would absolutely die.

The drawing room of the house was a cosy and comfortable space, housing several sofas and love seats around a large fireplace. Other couples were already present and John did not fail to note that his best friend was analysing every single one of them. John took the more personal approach and introduced themselves to some of the others. There would be five more couples, aside from them. He just casually chatted with some of the people, giving Sherlock plenty of opportunity to make his own deductions. No doubt he’d shortly be regaled with all the sordid details of their fellow house-guests.

After lunch, which was served in the adjacent dining room, the group was scattered throughout the house. Sherlock received a folder that contained the schedule of their week, as well as what he guessed were questionnaires. John managed a peek – it seemed like they would have a busy time. Individual sessions, group sessions, afternoon activities... how on Earth they'd have enough time to conduct an investigation here under cover was beyond him. 

But he couldn't forget, six people had gone missing. This wasn't some fun, ridiculous quest, or a week off. Their presence here would be a balance between maintaining a cover and solving the case...

before they were next.

* * *

“It seems like you have a good relationship, even if life can be a bit hectic. Can you tell me what actually led you to seek therapy?”

Their therapist, Miss Wilby, had indulged their small-talk and deflections for the better part of their first session. They had met her that afternoon, when a woman in her mid-thirties with beautiful dark hair had welcomed them warmly into her office in one of the smaller blocks surrounding the courtyard at the back of the house.

They’d managed to waffle on for quite a bit, mostly about how busy they were between their shared job, John’s job and caring for Rosie. But now that the big question was posed, they both felt on edge. This was where the difficult part would come in. The part where they’d lay out their differences and dissect them over the next few sessions.

“Anything you say here is confidential. I’m only here to help you.” She pressed them gently.

They looked at each other. Neither of them felt like it, but John bit the bullet.

“Alright. Okay. I – um… having said all that, some things are… not so great.”

“Here we go.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back to study the ceiling in quite a convincing act. John pretended to be riled up by that.

“Oh, okay. Be like that.” Then he turned to the therapist. “Should I tell you how he’s always late? Or that he leaves the kitchen cupboards open, even if my daughter can crawl inside, or that he still keeps body parts in the fridge or that he calls me over to do the stupidest things, like hand him his phone, or that there’s usually some chemicals on the kitchen table. Sometimes I come home and he complains that I never listen to him, only to find out he’s been talking to me while I’m away and he doesn’t even notice that I’m not there. Or should I mention that he is a compulsive liar, he’s emotionally unavailable, is incredibly narcissistic, is afraid of commitment and sometimes disappears for days on end. And he faked his death, making me think he died for two years.” John ended, having run out of fingers on which to count his roommate’s many offenses.

He was quite pleased with that recap. Of course, he’d complained about Sherlock often enough in his own therapy sessions, but it was rather fulfilling to spit it all out _in front of Sherlock_ without getting interrupted. He looked at his friend, who was slouched on the couch, long legs stretched out. He was looking at the ceiling, head cocked, as if weighing John’s response. Ultimately, he merely pursed his lips and nodded once, as if to say ‘yep, that’s about right’. John’s barrage of his misdoings hadn’t fazed him in the slightest. Well, obviously, because John had voiced them often enough.

The therapist blinked at him. “That’s… quite a list, John. I see you came well prepared. Now, Sherlock, what brought you to seek couples therapy?”

Sherlock looked at the therapist. “Right. My turn.” He drew his legs back and sat up straight. Oh boy. John suddenly felt a bit nervous.

“Quite simple. My partner, John, has set forth my, frankly, trivial misdoings. I, instead, came here to research if a romantic relationship between John and me has any hope of lasting. I am, as my partner has extensively expounded, a difficult man to live with. I accede that I am not without my faults. John himself is not much better. It has appeared to be quite a struggle to be in a relationship with him, seeing as he is severely repressed and in denial. He will actively inform people that he’s not gay, even though nobody but him really cares or asks him where he sticks his privates. He makes a show of dating, and even marrying, random women in order to make sure he fits into the heteronormative society he perceives – which is obviously nonsense. When his marriage ended – my fault, I’m afraid, I got her killed, honestly didn’t mean to – I figured he’d finally see what was right under his nose. Now John has never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, so instead he hated me and ignored me. I set up a recto-cranial extraction by ways of getting myself nearly overdosed and/or killed and he had to save my life. Not _quite_ how I’d envisioned supporting my friend through his tragic loss, but I was happy to do it all the same. And to some effect, since after that, I believe he had started to cotton on and we now finally are together in a relationship. Took us a fair few years, so I had anticipated that he would be, so to say, _all in_. I discovered to my dismay, but certainly not to my surprise, that there is no such thing as a ‘happily ever after’. I remain sceptical of his commitment, I’ve overestimated him before in that regard. Don’t misunderstand, he is fiercely loyal, but he is terribly hesitant about his sexuality. Oh, and he also has internalized homophobia due to his abusive father and probably some incidents in his military career that have ingrained in him that it’s quite dangerous to act upon his suppressed homoerotic feelings. Of course it would be fine to let sleeping dogs lie, if I wasn’t keen to have a deeply committed relationship with the man I love.”

He finished his monologue primly, letting the word _love_ hang in the air, suspended by the stunned silence of his audience.

John’s stomach was in his shoes and he thought maybe his heart had stopped as well. What the hell was Sherlock on about? He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He closed it again. He looked at his friend, the most important person in his life, and several feelings began to compete. Anger, always anger at Sherlock and his deductions and his tactlessness, but also shame and fear. God, a lot of fear suddenly rose up, like icy blue poison racing through his veins. So many things he said had been true. Had Sherlock seen it? Had he always known what John felt? Is that why he never said anything, because Sherlock didn’t feel the same way? But another feeling rose. ‘The man I love’… and there was a glimmer of hope, a treacherous spark of _could it be? Could he mean it?_ He tried to meet his friend’s eyes, but they were evenly trained on the therapist.

“Oh, and John was wrong about one thing.” Sherlock continued airily. “I’m not a compulsive liar. It’s completely voluntary.”

The room was silent for a solid minute.

“O…kay.” The therapist stammered, making a note with a shaking hand. “Thank you for being open with me. Let’s let this sink in a bit and end our session here.”

And Sherlock, apparently satisfied with the session’s result, stood up to get himself a cup of tea. John let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and deflated into his chair. He tried, to meet his friend’s eyes, but he was definitely avoiding his gaze. Closest to the truth, Sherlock had said... was there truth in those pivotal words?

Or was that just wishful thinking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who's left comments and kudos. You have no idea how much it means to me. Writing is hard, especially in these mind-numbing times. Please forgive any spelling mistakes. This has not been beta'ed or Brit-picked.


End file.
